


Lodestar

by findmyantidrug



Series: Vietnam AU [2]
Category: Watchmen - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Vietnam AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-01
Updated: 2012-01-01
Packaged: 2017-10-28 16:55:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/310015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/findmyantidrug/pseuds/findmyantidrug
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>July, 1970. A soldier makes his way home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The end that's not heartbreaking.

The men on the barge treat him like cargo, eyeing his guns and uniform from a distance. They know he's a stowaway by all accounts, one in plain sight who comes up to deck to breathe when he can't take the shifting heat of the cargo hold anymore. No one suggests arresting him. He eats the few rations he scraped in Nha Trang, and when those are gone he stolidly avoids the kitchen, though he doubts the cook would turn him away. He catches a rat and rinses its blood off his chin with a little stagnant water that tastes metallic.

He rarely sleeps, and the motion of the barge against the sea is unsettling. At night, when the groans of the ship seem muffled by darkness and the sailors are nearly all sleeping, he stands at the guard rail and watches the stars.

-

In the Philippines, he spends a little money on some dried meat and a pathetic-looking bunch of bananas. He tries not to swerve as he walks. The citizens avoid him when they see him, mothers herding their children away.

Fortunately, it doesn't take long to figure out which trade ship will bear him to California. He spends two days staking out the docks before finding a suitable ship; the next evening he's safely nestled between clanging crates on his way out.

The crew is angry when they find him, but disjointed and ineffective captors. Kovacs already knows how he will get away from them an hour after they lock him up. They didn't even bother to take anything other than his weapons, nor to check him thoroughly. The knot work binding his wrists is, predictably, excellent, but not a problem. At least they leave him alone in his makeshift prison hold, and give him meagre rations, untying him when they do until he's finished eating.

The evening before they are due in California, Kovacs gets lucky. A squall hits the ship; he's able to use a rusting hook to cut the rope, and he sneaks about the ship until he finds his knife and pistols. He finds a suitable hiding place in the cramped space behind a stairwell and waits the storm out, cold rainwater dripping off his nose.

-

California is too hot, too much like Vietnam. Kovacs rearranges his pack in an abandoned building, leaving behind what is not strictly practical to keep and storing his guns, jacket, and helmet in his pack.

He travels at night, and keeps away from main roads, except to check his current position.

A farmer offers him a ride outside of San Bernardino, which he accepts, grateful for the luck. He sits among crates of tangerines, doesn't eat any despite his hunger; he chews slowly on the hard stones of the wire owl's eyes and looks at the pictures of Sally and Laurie for a long time.

-

Out of curiosity, Rorschach stops at Abilene, Kansas, and visits Bill Brady's grave. He pays his respects under a storm-cloud sky, and moves on.

-

He kills a man in Ohio, makes him choke on his knife and twists him apart under his hand. His blood is soothing on Rorschach's aching hands, a clean baptism of purpose, from one world to the other.

The pilfered address that has been trapped in his journal for nearly a year is crossed out with two neat lines.

-

Rorschach spends some time in an abandoned rural home in Pennsylvania, to admire the clean-cut beauty of America and enjoy the cooling breeze and speckled night sky. On the second evening, he sees what he believes to be an owl cross over the moon, its arched silhouette catching his breath.

He knows when to recognize signs. He gathers himself, and picks up his slow trek once again.

-

New York hasn't changed. Some things, he knows, never will. Her dirty streets welcome him home, a father's one-armed embrace, and he almost forgoes following his path home to take her in, all of her scents and sounds and vivid, hallucinogenic lights.

Acid is in his throat. He swallows it down, and walks.

-

He can't remember the last time he slept.

-

The Gunga Diner's elephant smiles at him as he passes, seeing only a glimpse of its bulbous pink form through an alleyway.

-

Rorschach takes the tunnel entrance, every inch of him vibrant with life, and he fingers the face in his pocket. It's a few hours past midday. Somewhere, a leak is dripping, but the most overpowering smell is sharp ozone and oil, wafting from the basement. Daniel must have used Archie last night, which is good, very good, because Rorschach had his doubts about Daniel's tenuous enthusiasm; he's much too dependent on the highs and lows of his emotions.

The basement is cluttered, all of Daniel's old gear looking well-used. Rorschach can see a few scattered projects that must have been started in his absence. A long roll of drafting paper is curling on the work bench.

Rorschach starts for the stairs, feeling like he's heading into a night in the bush, all silence and wide eyes and the stench of close fauna in his nostrils. He swallows, and stops on the top stair. It occurs to him that Daniel may not want to see him again, it's been so long. That Daniel may have not just kept moving, but moved on, found a suitable partner in his absence.

Rorschach tells himself very firmly that if Daniel has, it will not be a problem.

He opens the door.

The kitchen is empty, lights off; there's no sound coming from the living room. Rorschach scowls. “Daniel?” he calls out, voice cracking from lack of use. No answer. Strange. He won't be asleep this late. Rorschach slips into the living room, turning the owl over his tongue. “Daniel?” Louder this time. The curtains in the living room are open, so Daniel must be home.

Shaky with agitation, Rorschach starts up the flight of stairs, taking two at a time. “Daniel!” Perhaps he's in his pigeon coop, tending to his birds. No lights shine from under any of the doors, but Rorschach opens each one, just in case. Nothing, except the hardly notable unmade state of Daniel's bed. Each floor produces the same result, until Rorschach's grinding his teeth down on the owl's eyes hard enough to hurt. All that's left is the roof, and the pigeon coop.

He lets himself up, calls Daniel's name one more time, glares at the conspicuous coop. He strides over to it and throws the door open, sending several pigeons flying; they shout their indignation back at him. No one's there. A large, handsome pigeon eyes him. “Well? Where is he?” he asks the bird. It ruffles its feathers and lays its head on its back.

The energy all drains from Rorschach, a stopper pulled. With a tired grunt, he shuts the door, gently this time, and turns, walks back. Each step weighs more, the past year and a half rearing its ugly maw, showing Kovacs his weakness with wide-open jaw and weight at his back, each joint aching, his muscles sore. He feels ancient, and foolish.

Kovacs makes his way downstairs, and stops at the cracked door to Daniel's room. Half-hoping he hadn't forgotten to shut the door, he pushes it open. It's empty, the room too bright with the overcast light filtering in the open curtains. Carefully, Kovacs sets down his pack beside Daniel's dresser and draws the curtains close.

He doesn't think about anything as he walks the few painful steps to Daniel's bed and lies down.

Enveloped by a warmth that doesn't threaten, he lets his body rest.


	2. Chapter 2

There is a terrible smell coming from Dan’s room, similar to the way homeless men on the subway smell but more sinister, gunpowder and something dark and animal. Dan’s palms are sticky with sweat. There are very few people who could sneak into his house from the basement, and only Rorschach would smell like that, but – but Dan assumed he died, his blood and body swallowed by the unfamiliar fauna of Vietnam’s jungles. Dan’s seen the news footage, read the articles, sometimes to the point of obsessing, and when the year since Rorschach’s deployment passed without any sign from him, Dan assumed the doors of life had snapped shut for him.

Rain patters gently on the roof of the brownstone, hopeful. Dan opens the door.

There’s a stranger in his bed who’s neglected to take off his boots. He has filthy hair and a filthy face turned, in sleep, towards the sound of rain on the window. One hand is clutching Dan’s pillow. He’s dressed in a soldier’s uniform, and his dog tags hang off a neck rusty with old blood. Dan lifts a hand so all he can see of the man’s face is below the nose, and there’s more stubble than he’s used to and the skin is dry, wrecked by hard travel, but Dan wouldn’t forget a profile like that. He creeps forward, bringing in his own smell of rain and city and Nostalgia.

 _Okay, Dan,_ he thinks, _you can wake up now._ But the rain goes on and the man doesn’t stir, his face so stern that Dan suspects he’s concentrating on sleeping. Gingerly, he plucks the dog tags off the covers, the clinking metal like silver bells in the hush.

Walter Kovacs. There’s another one, too: Edward Blake. Dan wonders which one he is.

The soldier’s eyes are open and they are staring through Dan, a flat penny color that only makes the dazed look more alarming. For a second, Dan can’t move. The moment breaks when he blinks.

“They have a shortage of paper over there or something?” he asks, feeling timid.

Rorschach grunts. His cheek pushes out as he works something in his mouth, and then he tilts his head up towards Dan. Between his teeth is the wire owl Dan gave him, shining with spit and bruised; its yellow stone eyes gleam. “Take it back,” he grits around it. “Don’t need it anymore.”

Dan’s chest tightens; he’s grateful that his back is to the gray light drifting through the window curtains. “That’s not how those work, buddy,” he says, rolling the dog tags in his palm. He’s alarmed by how badly he wants to kiss it out of Rorschach’s mouth. “Go back to sleep. We can talk later.”

“No.” Dan squeezes his eyes closed, tries to focus on the wailing rain. He wonders if he’s still grieving, if he’ll ever really stop. There is a tug from his coat pocket – Rorschach’s fingers are tucked into it, urging him closer. Dan’s knee hits the mattress.

“It’s all right.” He has no idea where to put his hands, and settles for resting one palm flat on the mattress. “Just go back to sleep.” The eyes hook into him. “Rorschach?”

“No,” softer this time.

Dan curves his body over Rorschach. The hand in his pocket slides out, drops heavy next to his knee.

Papers speculated over Rorschach’s disappearance; gang members taunted Nite Owl; the cringing, half-sympathetic looks from the other crimefighters are still fresh in his mind. He told himself he could deal with whatever happened to Rorschach, but an empty coffin is a terrible strain.

“I missed you,” hushed as rain on a rooftop, trickling need.

-

Rorschach’s skin is grimy, his hair clumped together by dirt when Dan tries to run his fingers through it. Slowly, Dan kisses across his bottom lip, tasting salt and blood, and moves down to his neck. Rorschach tilts his head back and sucks in a long, slow breath. Dan holds him there, teeth blunt at his Adam’s apple, before leaning up.

“Where _were_ you?” he asks, afraid of the answer.

Rorschach focuses just past him, his mouth set in a grim line. “Don’t want to know.”

He’s probably right, but Dan still wants to coax the answer out of him, piecemeal. ”You don’t have to tell me,” he says. Rorschach’s eyes drift shut and his head lolls towards Dan’s hand. The smell of gunpowder emanates from him and fine red dust is caked on his skin, not quite thick enough to obscure grime the color of oil spills. “How about a shower?” Dan asks, sitting up. Rorschach grunts and doesn’t move. “You can go right back to bed,” he promises. That doesn’t even garner a reaction. Dan leans away, thinking hard. “All right. Come on, buddy.”

Rorschach grunts unhappily when Dan grabs his shoulders and hauls him to a sitting position, but then complies, climbing stiffly out of the bed. Chest tight, Dan leads him out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom; the rain is coming down in torrents, now. The house is gray and quiet.

In the bathroom, Dan runs hot water in the tub as Rorschach strips, peeling away layers of himself until he’s left only with his silver dog tags. Dan makes a point not to stare as Rorschach sinks into the water. He has sores from where his uniform stuck and chafed; his face, Dan realizes when he looks closer, looks just as bad – Dan wonders, amazed, if he wore the mask in Vietnam. His hands are bloody.

Dan reaches across him to pick up a bottle of shampoo. Rorschach tilts his head back against the glaring white linoleum and watches him.

“Stay still,” Dan asks of him.

-

The water turns dark as Dan works, soothing his hands through Rorschach’s angry curls, washing out what must be ages of travel. He can see Rorschach’s mouth moving the trinket, slowly, the flex of his jaw and careful turn of his tongue against his cheek. He’s not relaxed, even though he’s reclining. Dan works under the expectation that Rorschach will flip back into himself, snarling and thrashing.

But he doesn’t. His eyes tear into Dan, raking over his face with something close to desperation but closer to death. He keeps his hands under the water. He is so patient with Dan’s touch that Dan starts to wonder if he’s drugged, as ridiculous as the prospect is. A year and a half is a long time for someone to change, even under normal circumstances.

Dan fetches a clean washcloth once he’s finished with Rorschach’s hair. His back is starting to ache from leaning over, so he rolls up his pant legs and sits with his feet in the tub, dirty water lapping at his skin.

When he cups Rorschach’s chin in one hand, he tenses, arching slightly out of the water. “Daniel,” he snaps, sharp as knives.

Dan hesitates. “What?” Rorschach doesn’t move, his gaze unwavering. Tentatively, Dan rubs the cloth under his eye in small, soothing circles. Rorschach snatches his hand away.

“Waste of time. It won’t come off.”

Thunder wracks the sky. Something snaps into place. “Sure it will,” he says, firmly. Rorschach seems on the verge of protesting. His fingers tighten on Dan’s wrist, turning the skin white. Dan waits. Finally, he lurches forward, sinking waist-deep in the water next to Rorschach; there is a churning in his stomach that’s close to anger. “Listen to me. I’ve missed you and I’m proud of you, but just let me have this.” He doesn’t break eye contact, as much as he wants to concede. “Just…just let me know this isn’t a dream.”

There is a long stretch where the only sound is the rain lashing against the brownstone’s roof, so heavy now that it sounds more like raging winds.

Rorschach doesn’t speak, but he nods.

-

Dan is gentle, cleaning Rorschach’s neck and face with slow circles, grimy water dripping between them, cascading down Rorschach’s chest. When the dirt’s been cleared away, he curves his palm against Rorschach’s neck, just over the pulse, the faint flutter of it against the base of his fingers. Rorschach sucks in a breath and holds it. He’s waking up, as if taking away the filth is absolving him of some terrible weight; the muscles in his arms and stomach clenching and relaxing in shivering increments, a tendon standing out in his neck.

It’s an old call: Come back to me.

-

They’re kissing, Rorschach’s hands fisted in Dan’s hair, his knees knocking against the sides of the tub as he tries to pull him closer, needy teeth and bright fear. One of his hands slicks down the back of Dan’s neck, and he presses his thumb hard against the knobbly bones of his spine. Dan reels back, panting, his hands lost under the murky water on Rorschach’s waist.

“I didn’t know what to do,” Dan gasps. “I thought you were dead – “

Rorschach studies him, his lips thin. The hand on Dan’s neck shifts, and the tension in the room goes heavy; Dan has seen Rorschach hold criminals necks this way, threatening to snap the brittle bones – and he knows Rorschach won’t, but the thought is there and he’s hard against his khakis.

Dan loops his arms around Rorschach and hoists him out of the tub; surprised, Rorschach sprawls on the floor, bony and lean, scars white on his skin. Water sluices off him, spreading like disease. Rorschach springs to his feet; he doesn’t stop to look at Dan before opening the door and disappearing down the hall. Dan can hear his bedroom door open, but not shut.

He strips before following after him, the corners of his mouth tugging, heart quick.

-

Rorschach pins Dan down, cold water dripping from his chin onto Dan’s stomach. He lifts his head and scrutinizes Dan, makes him shiver and arch his back with expectation. “Didn’t have this scar before,” he rasps. The hand on Dan’s chest slides its slick way down to his lowest rib, where an ugly pink scar cuts its way up Dan’s skin.

“Oh…yeah. It’s from - February, I think; a guy - “ but he falters at the keen, predatory way Rorschach is watching him. “It was just some kid,” he finishes lamely, because even though it took several stitches and weeks for the wound to fully heal, he’s not sure what Rorschach will do if he has the man’s name and isn’t sure the kind of justice his calloused hands would dole out would really be just.

Rorschach leans, scrapes his stubbled face against it, scrapes his teeth, curves his bony spine and stretches across Dan.

-

Dan clutches Rorschach to him and tastes his pulse on his tongue. Groans in his ear. The world is condensing to this tiny space, just the creaking bed and Rorschach warm against him, and the last year and a half is slipping away in the dim, stretched minutes. Rorschach digs his fingers into Dan’s back.

-

“Nite Owl,” he breathes just before he comes, shaking.

Dan’s heart skips a beat.

-

The rain is still pouring down; the flashes of lightning make Rorschach look ancient as stone, his lined face pressed into the pillow. Dan turns into him and wraps an arm around him.

The sky turns black. The rain lapses. Rorschach stays.


End file.
